Marsh-Chrysalis

Another from the archives. I wish I could remember what led me to write this

Beyond the ever-drifting banks

Where stagnant waters, weed-locked, lie,

I flow into a quieter place

With my own tears my lullaby.

Here drinks the morning from the hills;

Here the first clouds in stillness blush.

Here waits the spear-straight, silvered grass,

Too pale and pristine to be lush.

And here I wait, newborn, alone;

Skin-less until my skin shall grow

To bear the agony of light,

And greet the waters’ ebb and flow.

And then (perhaps?) the dearer thing

My storm-drowned heart so longs to find:

A hand, a voice, a welcoming;

The human touch of my own kind.